Portion of the Sea (43 page)

“Yeah, I am too.
Where
is he flying out from?”

“Miami. A friend is driving him there.”

“When
did he leave?”

“About ten minutes ago.”

“It was nice seeing you, Max.”

“You take care of yourself, young lady, in that big city, you hear?”

“Of course I will. I better get hurrying.” I turned and started for my car. “Lydia,” he called after me.

“Yes?”

“He’s in a silver van.”

I glanced back at him and nodded. I got into my car and drove away.

I turned right at the four-way stop and found a line of waiting cars on the causeway. A tall boat was heading leisurely across the bay, and the bridge had slowly started to lift as the boat approached. I put my car in park, opened my door, and stepped out. My eyes followed the line of stopped cars—a station wagon. Taxi. Yellow van. Black Chrysler. Green car. Blue car and another green one after that. And then I saw it, seven cars ahead of me—a silver van.

Josh had his arm hanging outside the window on the passenger side, and I took a few steps, ready to run up alongside the line of vehicles and
take hold of his hand forever. But then my heart started pounding fiercely, and it didn’t feel right. I got back into my car and pulled it over to the sandy area, where cars can park and people can picnic or watch the sun do its thing.

I sat forward in the driver’s seat, leaning on the wheel for support, trying to figure out what I should do. When the sailboat entered the water directly under the bridge, I had to make my mind up quickly because the bridge would soon lift and the cars would start up again.

Josh never told me he was joining the Peace Corps. Never mentioned he was leaving today. I thought our night together meant something. It did to me. I was about to quit the life I had created for myself back home and stay here forever with him. I assumed he’d be waiting there at the marina with open arms to receive my news, but now I could see he had different plans, dreams. I of all people could only support the dreams a person has for his life.

When the sailboat appeared on the other side of the bridge, I stepped out of my car once more. I stood there watching the silver van get away.

“I love you,” I whispered as I looked out across the bay. After all my chasing and capturing and loving, I let him get away. But those are the rules of the sport, I told myself matter-of-factly. It hurts but you’ve got to let the silver king go.

When I could no longer see the van, I walked into the water, not caring that I still had on my best pair of shoes as I stood there a moment. I rummaged through my memory of the night before. Had I given him any verbal indication of how I cared for him? No. Had I mentioned the possibility of my staying longer in order to continue our relationship? No. It wasn’t until sunrise that I made the decision to tell him how I loved the beautiful world in which he lived.

Instead, I had left him with the notion that I was a catch and release, returning to Chicago, on my own again, maybe for years, maybe forever. I made a mistake. And now it was too late. It wasn’t like I could just print an editor’s note in the next day’s paper with the correction.

As I stood there ankle-high in the water, I reached deep down into my innermost being and pulled out my heart. I squeezed it tightly in my fist,
and then hung my head back and vowed, “I will never marry any other man.” I extended my arm out and threw my heart like a skipping stone across the surface of the bay. It landed hard and made a splash.

He was gone, and so was my heart. I didn’t want to stick around watching it sink as Ava had once done; so, I got back into my car and drove toward the island.

XXXVIII

CHICAGO

1964
MONTHS LATER

Lydia

I SPENT THE NEXT
nine months working sunrise to sunset and then into overtime, despite the laws forbidding a woman to work overtime, beneath the fluorescent lights of the newsroom, trying to forget how I’d rather be outdoors beneath the sky and the moon as it glistens across the waters off Sanibel. But like a swimmer pushing off the edge of the pool, I kicked away from all my “should haves” and moved quicker and stronger toward my deadlines at work, taking on more challenges as I went. That’s what happens when a woman’s heart is missing. Her mind works overtime to push her through.

But one fall day in particular, two months after returning home from my weekend trip to Sanibel, I noticed my mind distraught and unable to focus on the stories it had to write. I laid my head down on my desk and felt like crying.

“You’re in shock,” my friend and coworker Jane said from one desk
over. “You and the entire country.”

Maybe she was right, for how could anyone be heartless and soulless enough to assassinate the president? I had fainted when the news first came into the newsroom, and Jane was there to help me, but I never told her I fainted three more times later that week. I feared something else might be going on inside me. I also knew I had been working crazy hours and taking hardly any care of myself for weeks.

But when I looked at my calendar and did some personal counting of days, turned into weeks, turned into two months, I went to the doctor. He confirmed what I had suspected. I was no longer a heartless woman, for there was a tiny new heart beating and developing deep within my corridors.

Despite nonchalantly puking into a trashcan from time to time, I did all I could to keep the baby growing inside me a secret from the world. It was a frightening world, and the headlines summed it up.

RIOTS. ASSASINATIONS. DEADLY HOT SUMMERS
.
ROCK STAR OBITUARIES ETCHED IN ACID. CONGRESS
GIVES PRESIDENT JOHNSON POWERS TO “TAKE ALL
NECESSARY MEASURES TO REPEL ANY ARMED ATTACK
AGAINST THE FORCES OF THE UNITED STATES AND TO
PREVENT FURTHER AGGRESSION.”

The baby safely flourishing within me was my own private news, and I didn’t want it breaking into any scandalous story. As my nine-month deadline grew on, I panicked that someone at work might find out. I ate healthy and only gained those absolute pounds the baby needed. I also started dressing in ways to hide the belly. And because I had been too thin to begin with, the additional weight filled my cheeks and brought me compliments. I couldn’t let anyone know the truth, not even Jane. I couldn’t take that risk.

Despite women celebrating a new sense of security in the workforce, thanks to receiving federal protection from discrimination, there were still many inequalities left. The world did not treat pregnant women the same
way they treated others. They weren’t getting hired because of their pregnancies, and many were getting fired. They had no sense of job security. And they weren’t being treated in the same manner as other applicants or employees.

As I wrote stories pertaining to females, I silently appreciated more than ever the efforts women across the nation were making. They were filing more discrimination complaints with the Equal Employment Opportunities Commission than any other single group. Still, I wasn’t about to announce my pregnancy to anyone at work and then complain about unfair benefits. When a married woman in this field got pregnant, she was considered halfway on the payroll unless she then took no time off after the birth.

I was a single woman with no one to rely on but myself, and since I never had a baby before, I didn’t know whether or not I would need a week off to recover after giving birth, and if I did, I planned on putting in for no more than five vacation days. I didn’t like keeping my pregnancy a secret, but I couldn’t afford the consequences of making it public. I needed my job now more than ever.

“You’re looking good, Lydia,” a familiar voice said from behind me one day as I was heating up water for a cup of tea in the break room. “I was just thinking about you the other day, wondering how things were going for you.”

It was Ethan. He and I hadn’t seen each other but in passing since I broke it off with him some time ago, but his name was everywhere in the papers. “Hey there,” I said, as I turned to see him pouring himself coffee.

“What I’m about to say,” he said, “is all compliment. So don’t take it the wrong way.”

“Lay it on me.”

“You’ve added pounds, but it looks great.”

I laughed, thinking back to my last doctor appointment when I got scolded for not putting on more weight this far along. I ate a huge feast after that appointment, fearful from what the doctor told me could happen if I didn’t gain more. It was early December so at least I was able to
hide my growing basketball of a tummy beneath thick sweaters and coats.

“Still covering women’s issues?” Ethan asked, and then watched me from the corner of his eye as he sipped his coffee.

“I am,” I said. “And you, you’re all over the place—from the Democratic National Convention to Dallas.” I could imagine everyone asking him about his witnessing Kennedy’s assassination, so I decided to end the topic quickly. “I’m sorry you had to be there that day, to be close and to see it all.”

“I was in the wrong place at the right time, that’s for sure,” he said. “Great for a journalist’s career, some have said, but horrible for any person to have to see and then try to process. I try keeping things from getting under my skin, but you know, it’s hard in this field, especially something like this. This world is a sick place, Lydia.”

“I know,” I said. “But you’re doing a great job covering it. I read your articles all the time. They’re always good.”

“I’m faced now, this week in fact, with deciding whether to stick with follow-ups of who killed the president or switch to covering Vietnam. They’re letting me choose between the two.”

“My God,” I said. “What a choice to be given.”

“I know. It’s weighing heavily on my mind. Lydia,” he said, his voice softening. “There’s nearly 23,300 American military advisers in Vietnam. Can you fathom that?”

“No, but knowing you, you’ll interview them all.” I laughed. “You’ve got more bylines than anyone, I think.”

He looked troubled, and I knew he could care less about a byline. He was the type who cared about the facts and getting it all one hundred percent correct. People talked about him. He was a man of integrity and had a reputation for working up to the last second of his deadlines for the sake of getting his stories to near-perfect levels and, then, arguing if need be with a tired editor, insisting in the final minute that something be added to a headline or that a story be arranged differently. He followed his stories through to their exact placement in the paper. He owned his stories and held on to them too tightly.

“What brings you to the second floor?” he asked me.

“I was searching for decaf tea. We’re out of it on my floor, and someone suggested I try this floor.”

“Tea? How boring. I thought you only drank coffee.”

“I made the switch,” I said. “I know it’s dull and gives me no lift whatsoever, but it has nothing to do with wavering ambition. I just needed a change.” I laughed, and so did he. “My stories take me three times as long to write since I gave up caffeine, and I’m on a deadline now; so, I better get going.” He looked me in the eyes, and I knew he wasn’t ready to say good-bye.

“Would you like to have dinner with me tonight?”

I took a sip of my hot water. I drank ten glasses a day for my baby. “Thanks for asking,” I replied. “But the honest answer is, I am exhausted.”

“What about tomorrow night?”

Tomorrow night I had off at last and there was nothing I wanted more than to sit on my sofa feeling for my baby’s hiccups deep within me. “I’m busy tomorrow night.”

“And the next?”

The next night I planned to walk down to the local movie theatre alone.

I didn’t mind going to a movie alone. The last couple of years Marlena had been playing smaller roles while directing for that independent film company based out of London. She greatly enjoyed it and her latest film would be releasing the day after tomorrow. I couldn’t miss it.

“And six months from now?” Ethan asked, fully aware that I was turning him down.